


Four Jobs Joan Could've Had and the Life She Had Instead

by katayla



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: Gen, Joan Watson is Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-21
Updated: 2013-12-21
Packaged: 2018-01-05 10:55:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,505
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1093050
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/katayla/pseuds/katayla
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The title says it all!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Four Jobs Joan Could've Had and the Life She Had Instead

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lynnmonster](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lynnmonster/gifts).



> Thanks to all my wonderfully encouraging friends!

1.

"I'm thinking about quitting medicine," Joan said.

"Oh Joanie, why would you want to do that?" her mom said, not really looking up from her magazine.

"You know why." Joan couldn't bear the thought of making another mistake, destroying another family.

"You've put in far too much time and money to quit now."

"But--"

"But what?" her mom asked.

Joan sighed. "Nothing."

Her mom was right. It had been intoxicating to think of changing her life. To never have to look in a family member's eyes again and tell them that she had failed. But she could do something very few people in the world could do. She could help people.

So she stayed. Sometimes, her colleagues accused her of being too cautious, told her she had lost her edge, but she still saved lives every day. She was doing _good_.

So she did it. She got up, she went to work, she did her job, she went home, she came back, and sometimes, sometimes, she got a glimpse of what it had been like before. The thrill of performing a surgery perfectly, knowing the she had made a difference in someone's life that maybe no one else could.

Someday, she would get all the way back there. She would fit into her life again.

2.

"I don't get it," Emily said. "What do you . . . do?"

"I help addicts keep away from bad habits," Joan said. She'd explained this over and over to her friends and family, but they kept questioning her, as if her answer would change.

"Okay, but you're a surgeon."

"I _was_ a surgeon."

"It's not like the skills go away, Joanie."

"This is what I'm doing now," she said. That was the best answer she could come up with when the questions didn't stop. Being a sober companion wasn't like being a surgeon. She was there and then she wasn't and how did you really know if you succeeded? Someone might slip up years down the road. You couldn't really fix anyone, but you tried.

"You were a brilliant surgeon," Emily said.

"And now I'm a brilliant sober companion," Joan said.

At least, she hoped so. She tried. And maybe you couldn't fix anyone, but maybe you could save someone. Maybe you could restore some balance to the universe, tilt it in the direction of all that was good.

"I just wonder if this is what you really want."

"It's what I'm doing now," Joan repeated. The thing about being a sober companion was that you got to see all these glimpses of other people's lives. You were there for a few weeks, you saw how other people lived, and then you were gone.

And people lived interesting lives. Uninteresting ones, too, but sometimes you saw paths you could've taken, pretended that you could do their job, too.

But you moved on because this was what you did now. And maybe you couldn't fix anyone, but maybe you could save someone. Maybe you could restore some balance to the universe, tilt it in the direction of all that was good.

3.

Joan rubbed her eyes and looked longingly at her empty cup of coffee. The kitchen was only a few feet away, but she _almost_ had the answer. If she stepped away from the computer, she was afraid the elusive bug would slip away and she'd be back to where she started.

"Okay," she murmured. "I know you're here somewhere."

She ran her fingers over the screen, looking for the piece that didn't fit. She'd tried to explain it to her brother the other day.

"It's like a math problem," Joan had said. "You know the answer is wrong and you have to find out _why_ it's wrong."

"Ugh," Oren said. "Probably because you added wrong."

"Yeah, but it's like you're adding 10,000 numbers together and you have to find where the problem is."

"Sounds terrible," Oren said.

Joan shook her head. "All the clues are right there. You stare at them long enough and the answer jumps out at you."

And she loved tracking down those details, turning a problem into a solution. She had a reputation for finding answers that others couldn't and she wasn't about to lose it. She'd been at this program for hours and she was almost, almost . . .

"And there you are!" Joan jumped out of her chair and pointed at the computer screen. "You can't get away from me."

She punched in the changes and ran the program. She didn't have to, she _knew_ this was the right answer, but it was all part of the process.

The program ran perfectly.

4.

"So, how did you become a writer?" The interviewer rolled her eyes at Joan a little, as if to say she knew this was a question Joan had answered a thousand times and would have to answer a thousand more.

And so Joan gave the answer she'd given 500 times before (it had taken a while to perfect). "It was an accident, really. My college roommate was a big mystery fan and left them all over our room. I started reading them and, eventually, she got tired of me complaining about how easy they were to solve and challenged me to do better."

College had been stressful and Christina's books had helped. Joan liked seeing the pattern laid out in each one. The suspects and the clues all coming together to form a perfect solution. But after powering through a whole stack of them over winter break sophomore year, everything started to seem _too_ obvious to her. She'd read half a book and figure everything out. Then she'd put it down and move to the next one.

Eventually, Christina had noticed and that's when she issued the challenge.

"And so you wrote a book," the interviewer said.

"And so I wrote a book."

Joan didn't like saying it like that, like she'd just woken up one morning, wrote a book, and that was that, but she'd learned that most people didn't want to hear all the ins and outs of writing. The way she'd put off studying to write just a few more words. The way the mysteries had taken a hold of her. She debated with Christina for hours about whether or not something was too obvious.

And then she'd finished the book. She and Christina spent their senior year spring break learning about agents and publishing and then she'd waited. And waited and waited.

Midway through med school, the book was published and it seemed like that was that.

Which is what she told the interviewer as the questions continued. Her book had done well. She finished med school, but never practiced. Her life had become about the mysteries. She started reading up on unsolved mysteries and wrote up solutions to them.

She had some interesting letters about those. She had a fan who seemed to take pleasure in poking holes in all her theories. She always meant to point out to him that they were fiction, but, instead, she ended up writing back defending her answers and coming up with new possibilities.

"So is your next book about an unsolved mystery?"

"Yes," Joan said. "I'm looking forward to seeing what people think of this one."

"I'm sure we'll love it."

5.

"WATSON!"

Joan jolted up in bed. Sherlock stood in her doorway.

"What are you doing?"

"I am respecting your privacy by not entering your room without your permission," he said.

"While you're at it, why don't you respect my sleep schedule?" She lay back down, knowing she'd be back up in a matter of minutes. Seconds, maybe.

"You've had a perfectly adequate amount of sleep. May I come in?"

"What?"

"May I enter your boudoir?"

Joan closed her eyes and thought about sighing. Or maybe groaning. Would that be better? "Sure."

"Thank you." He stepped carefully into the room.

And said nothing else.

She opened her eyes back up. He sat in her chair, with his hands folded on his lap.

"What are you doing?"

"You asked me to respect your sleep schedule. I am waiting for you to arise."

Joan sat up. "Since when do you listen to what I say?"

"I always listen to what you say."

Joan rolled her eyes. "Since when do you do what I ask?"

"I've been thinking about what you say about partnership. If I expect you to follow my requests, then perhaps I should follow yours. At least, a few of them."

"Well," Joan said. "That is kind of you."

"It's not a question of kindness," Sherlock said. "It's simply--"

She held up a hand. "Yeah, yeah, you can tell me later. Why are you here?"

"We have a case!" He jumped up. "Get dressed! I'll meet you downstairs in five minutes!"

"Do you want to pick out my clothes?" She yelled out the door.

"I have confidence you will pick out something suitable!" Sherlock yelled back. "Hurry!"

She got out of bed with a smile on her face.


End file.
